


What's in a Name?

by Ealasaid



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, sardonicpuppeteer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:45:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on sardonicpuppeteer.tumblr.com's character and shenanigans with other rpers. In which Bro is magic-anoned into having an orgasm every time someone says his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sardonicPuppeteer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sardonicPuppeteer/gifts).



> This was inspired by sardonicpuppeteer's Bro roleplayer account on tumblr and loosely loosely based off of the interactions between he and other people. The only character directly based on someone's roleplaying account is Bro (sardonicpuppeteer). Any other people mentioned are not associated with specific accounts, mostly because I only followed sardonicpuppeteer; any similarities otherwise are entirely unintentional and are not meant to reflect any specific tumblr roleplaying accounts.
> 
> Nevertheless, by request this story has been edited from the original text to avoid identifying any specific accounts overmuch, because some readers might not understand that this is a non-canon work inspired by a tumblr roleplaying account and is this a work of fiction of a work of fiction of a work of fiction.
> 
> I apologize for any and all inconveniences.

Your name is Broderick Bran Strider. You’re a thirty-something badass timelord with mad ninja skillz (txt it brah) and all kinds of other ironically shitty qualifications to your existence, but the one that concerns you the most right now is your incredibly horrible intolerance to weird magic shit.

For some reason you are under the dubious good fortune of having an instant-orgasm spell on you. This could actually be really awesome. What isn’t is that the trigger is your own goddamn name.

Someone texts you going “hey bro sup” and whoops, you’re up and raring to go. Droog motions you over (“Hey, Strider”) and you’re enduring severe tests of your uncrackable poker face. And now fucking Scratch himself decided to pop over and take a gander or some shit and “Broderick Strider, I must say that it is a pleasure to not be seeing you through a screen” temporarily blinds you.

“Nn _ngh”_ you herk out. You shove your sword at his throat in the hopes you can get rid of him; you did kill a version of Doc a few days ago so if you're lucky it could happen again with this one.

He evades it easily enough, but the second was what you needed to get over the irritating accidental orgasm and you’re swinging at him faster than the eye can see. 

“Strider,” Scratch chides, and your focus slips for a moment. He disappears the instant before you make contact and reappears standing to one side. You’re flying at him again as soon as you get him in your peripherals.

“Broderick?” It’s questioning, and you know he can see the faint tremor that wracks your body. Magic trickery, you decide in that instant, is almost as bad as body fuckery, and it looks like it might get you in far more trouble… 

“Right here, Doc,” you say purposefully keeping the tone lazy to frustrate whatever inquisitive processes the cue-ball puppet’s engaging, flashstepping after him as he teleports around the room. “I’m a little busy, trying to catch this assailant invading my household. Gotta protect the family and all.”

“I’m sure your loyalties haven’t changed, my dear Broderick,” Scratch says serenely with only the faintest of emphasis on the last part of the sentence as he disappears again. Expecting the name-drop, you don’t let yourself stumble.

“Strider, Strider, Strider,” he murmurs from behind you, freezing you in place. It’s not your whole name but the quantity makes up for it. You viciously strangle the noise coming out of your throat and emerge from that brief inner struggle to meet Scratch’s fist with your jaw. You stagger back a few steps and he follows it up with a delighted  _“Broderick Bran Strider_ , _”_ shaping the words with such care it seems to shape the way you lose your balance and land on your back, hips arching off the floor while you choke out garbled noise.

It’s when the stars are clearing off your vision and you see him leaning into your field of vision that you drunkenly swing at him with the sword you apparently lost your grip on; your knuckles skim the fine fabric of his trousers instead. “Well,” he says as you roll to one side in search of your trusty blade, “it looks like your susceptibility to magic hasn’t disappeared in the few days I’ve been gone.” You snag the hilt of your sword and flashstep for him, but you’re not moving fast enough to not hear it when he says your name again, another “Broderick Bran Strider” that slams you into a bookshelf instead as you stop steering mid-flash.

This time he gets you into a headlock and doesn’t even wait for your vision to clear before he starts crooning “Striiiiiider” over and over, bringing you implacably to the gorge just for you to fall into it again and again.

You’re gasping, you can’t breathe; your body is so taunt from the stress of tension-release, tension-release that you can hardly feel what’s going on. Your pants have never been and never will be again this badly fucked up. In between the chemical highs and your furious hatred for the old devil, everything starts getting twisted turnways and it’s not too long before you can’t  _not_  think of Scratch with each new sensory overload.

He’s got you stripped and tied to a chair at some point, and he used some of that weird green electric magic of his to tie you to it. It takes you several minutes after he stops crooning your name, but you’re able to lift your head and snarl a glare in his direction while you wrench at the magic green rope.

Scratch’s standing a few feet away, arms behind his back, regarding you solemnly. “This really is intriguing,” he says. “I’ve never seen a spell like this before. Do you mind if I test it out?”

He doesn’t wait for your “Go fuck yourself with a monkey-tail tree” before saying your first, middle, and last name again, making you arch against the bonds restricting you to the chair and morph your insult halfway through into a groan. “Strider” by itself leaves you gasping but not insensible; “Bran” pushes you over the edge, and “Bro” has you trembling but still coherent. He tries them in different combinations, either toppling you into oblivion or leaving you hanging by a thread. Then he strings the three together again in what is almost certainly a loving caress and your exhausted muscles tense and release viciously.

You literally cannot see by now. Your body is aching, your lungs are burning, and it feels horrible and so desperately amazing that you are deliriously torn between the wrenching pain and the glorious pleasure. Scratch leaves you rasping for breath there, limp against the ropes, and murmurs in a voice utterly detached: “Most intriguing, my dear Broderick.” (Muscles seize; hang trembling on the edge.) “Please accept my sincere thanks for allowing me to test the extent of this spell. I’m going to have to find a copy of it for myself.”

You’d have come up with an ironically witty response to singe some of the smug off of the doctor’s face, but it was then that Scratch leaned forward and tenderly whispered your full name. The vast roaring in your ears followed by the complete blackout left you slumped on the chair covered in a white mess, alone in a trashed room. 


End file.
